


The Healing Cabin in Montana

by MatterofTrust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Sick Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:05:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatterofTrust/pseuds/MatterofTrust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place during the three weeks’ time after Bobby’s house burned down and when Dean broke his leg in Season 7, Episode 3. It occurred to me that this season is ripe with those ‘family’ moments, and I wanted to play on that. Basically, this is a self-indulgent fic, because I wanted some good ol’ Dad-Bobby and Bumleg-Dean and Lucifer-infected-Sammy. Enjoy! Don’t know if this is a one-shot yet, or not. Reviews and comments are always welcome and very much appreciated!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Healing Cabin in Montana

**Whitefish, Montana. Rufus’s Cabin. ‘Healing’ Day 3.**

Somehow, without the aid of an extra hand, Bobby Singer managed to open the door to the cabin he and the boys were staying in, though his hands were full of grocery bags. He was barely three feet in the door before he heard them squabbling. Cabin fever had set in already and they’d only been cooped up for two days now.

“Can’t you just turn it down, Dean?” Sam asked.

“I would, sure, but I can’t reach the remote, because someone had to throw it across the room.”

“I didn’t throw it.”

Bobby came in and after dropping the groceries on the counter he went to the other side of the couch and bent over to retrieve the remote control. He turned it down before handing it to Dean and gave him a warning look that meant it had better stay at the volume he chose. Dean huffed and after putting the remote on the coffee table, crossed his arms over his chest. Bobby chose to ignore the petulant look on Dean’s face and instead asked, “How’s the leg?”

“It’s my driving leg, what do you think?” Dean complained, and then added, “It’s itchy.”

Bobby went over to the supplies and tossed Dean a knitting needle. “Just be careful with it.” Then to Sam, he asked, “How’s the head?”

Sam shrugged, “It’s okay.”

Bobby eyed him carefully and then said, “If you say so.”

Sam just sighed; he was already tired of no one believing him. Yeah, so he saw Lucifer as others saw anyone else. But he was managing it, wasn’t he? Dean’s trick to put as much pressure as possible on the cut on his hand was doing a decent job of making Lucifer go away. So, he wished everyone would stop asking. Doing his best to change the subject, he said, “Hey, Bobby, did you find anything about what we’re dealing with here?”

“A little busy getting supplies and recovering my books, so no, not yet.” He didn’t mean to sound grumpy, but their luck was shitty at the moment, and if he knew them, which he did, things were only going to get worse.

“Sorry,” Sam said. “I can help you look if you want.”

Dean was all over that. “Oh no you don’t. Not until you ditch the devil.”

Sam would have rebutted but paused as he saw Lucifer standing in the corner, arms crossed, with that small arrogant grin on his face. He looked entirely comfortable; making it known that he wasn’t going anywhere. “ _Ditch me_ ,” he said, in that snarky, cool-as-a-cucumber voice, “ _Aw, that’s not very nice. I thought we were pals._ ”

Sam jabbed his thumb into his palms and Lucifer fizzled out of existence – for the moment – but not before Dean and Bobby noticed.

“Sammy?” Dean asked.

Followed by, “You okay, kid?” From Bobby.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said, widening those hazel eyes and conjuring up a small smile. “I’m fine.” But, of course, the truth was, he wasn’t. And things were about to get much worse.

**Whitefish, Montana, where else? ‘Healing’ Day 5.**

Bobby had gone out, yet again in search of supplies, though this time of a different variety. Perhaps because they never, ever, had time enough for a break until they were both laid up, both Dean and Sam were now under the weather. Leaving Bobby with the continued job of playing nurse maid. If anything was worse than Dean with a broken bone, and Sam with an issue he’d rather not discuss, it was both at the same time, while also sick.

“Ugh, Sammy,” Dean said, from his usual spot on the couch. Bum leg propped, remote in hand. “I think I’m turning monster. There’s so much goo coming out of me.”

“Ugh,” Sam said in return, “You’re disgusting.”He tossed the tissue box at him.

Dean blew his nose, sighed, and rested his head on the couch. “Shut up.”

“H’ChMmp! Huh-EgShoo!” Sam sneezed into the crook of his arms since he had given Dean the tissues.

“Hah. Who’s disgusting now?” Dean asked. Perhaps that was code for ‘bless you’.

“Still you, gimpy.” Sam got up to get the tissue box back, but doing so caused his head to pound and spin. A lingering side effect of the head bashing he’d taken? A symptom of his current cold? Or was it Lucifer?

“While you’re up,” Dean said and shot his brother a grin, “Get me a beer.”

“No,” Sam replied and took great pleasure in sitting back down in the recliner chair. “Beer’s not good for you when you’re sick.”

Dean did his best to glare at Sam before his nose interrupted. “H’itchsh! H’eshiew! Oh, fuck me.”

“No thanks. And bless you.”

“This is all your fault,” Dean said, swiping a hand under his nose, which, come to think of it, hurt like a sonuvabitch.

“How is this my fault?” Sam asked, incredulously.

“Pretty sure you sneezed first. Patient zero.”

Sam scoffed. “I did not.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Did you record it or something?”

“I don’t have to. I have great recollection.”

“Hah. Yeah you do.” Sam turned away, quickly and sneezed again. “Huh-EgShoo!”

And that argument was what Bobby returned to. “You boys better quit fighting over every livin’ thing, ‘fore I put you both to work.”

“I’m a little off balance these days,” Dean started.

“Don’t matter,” Bobby replied. “You can sit while you unclog the sink’s drain.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh. Bobby raised an eye and said, “And you’ll be on cobweb duty. Won’t even need a ladder. Or full control over reality either.”

“When you’d turn into Cinderella, Bobby?” Dean asked, pushing his luck.

“Won’t be me in the apron, boy,” Bobby replied, sternly, but it was obvious to both Sam and Dean that he didn’t really mean it. They knew him well, and he was pretty soft on them when they were sick. And to prove their point, he said, “Well, best get you boys doped up, and get this out of your system.” He handed cold pills to them both, along with some water. And while they took them, he opened another box of tissues so they wouldn’t have to share the same box anymore. God knew – and they would need a new expression here too, because Bobby doubted God-Castiel gave a shit about them anymore – that sharing wasn’t something they were doing well these days.

About an hour later the coughing, sneezing and arguing was replaced by soft snores, and Bobby didn’t dare wake them as he sat with an old lore book, searching through it for all things Leviathan. Though, to be honest, he wasn’t focusing well. Sleeping softened the lines – mostly the worry kind – that had crept up on both Sam and Dean, and they now resembled much younger versions of themselves. Sam slept on the recliner, hardly fitting, but managing to somehow look comfortable and peaceful anyways, and Bobby hoped he slept without dreams. Dean, on the other hand, was sprawled out on the couch, his body twisted except for his leg with the cast.

It reminded him of a time that when he thought about it wasn’t really that long ago, though it seemed as if it was another lifetime. John was still alive and Bobby’s parenting duties were of the ‘surprise’ kind back then. John would drop off the boys every now and again, without instruction manuals, mind you, and then pop back in usually angry and upset, but insisting that he knew what was best for his two sons. 

As if hunting was good for any kid. It seemed the only time the boys ever got out of it was when they were physically incapable or when Sam was too young and considered a burden. The time that Bobby thought of now was of the former, when settling for a time in school had landed the boys with a nasty stomach virus. John couldn’t be bothered with such a thing and so he dropped them off with Bobby. And for three days Bobby bounced from bathroom to bedroom. When John returned he didn’t even ask how his sons were, was always more interested in interrogating demons over why they ruined his family and never seeing that he was further ruining it. 

In fact, because Bobby was feeling rather self-indulgent at the moment, he might as well blame the whole damn world of woes on John Winchester, and Mary too. After all, both their boys had been to hell and back, in pursuit of the damn same goals their parents forced them to be a part of. And who had been there to pick them back up, dust them off and deal with the inevitable emotional breakdowns? Well, him, that’s who. 

Finished now that he had a good mad, he was ready to do the job he was given; the job he had to admit he wanted. And if that meant playing nursemaid while juggling ancient books, so be it. Bobby Singer would take care of his own.

 


End file.
